


come the clear clouds of summer

by philthestone



Series: hark the bluebells [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-Season/Series 03, s3 clowned but WHAT a happy ending tbh. anyway heres wonderwall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:13:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25816348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: “You know,” says d’Artagnan, peering down, “that’s got to be the most handsome baby in the world, I think.”“He takes after Sylvie,” explains Aramis, who has not given up his hold on said baby in nearly an hour.Athos, unaffected, glows with pride.
Relationships: Ana de Austria | Anne d'Autriche/Aramis | René d'Herblay, Aramis | René d'Herblay & d'Artagnan & Athos | Comte de la Fère & Porthos du Vallon, Athos | Comte de la Fère/Sylvie (The Musketeers 2014), Constance Bonacieux & Elodie (The Musketeers 2014), Elodie (The Musketeers 2014)/Porthos du Vallon, d'Artagnan/Constance Bonacieux
Series: hark the bluebells [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/672722
Comments: 21
Kudos: 73





	come the clear clouds of summer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CrimsonPetrichor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonPetrichor/gifts).



> inspired by a series of 3-sentence prompt fills on tumblr; dedicated to zainab
> 
> reviews are love in my heart, and i had missed writing for this post-show happy ending verse it must be said

**i. warmly**

_I have just put Marie-Cessette down for bed, Porthos,_ reads the very end of her latest letter _, and must be getting on with some sleep of my own as well. I wonder sometimes if your notes gloss over the more terrible things you see. There’s a practical part of me that surely you know (having been on the receiving end of it before) that assumes so. There is another, equally practical part that does not believe you capable of lying to me. I reflect every other day that I have married an honest man._

 _Anyway, I’d like you to know you’ve gone and married an honest woman, if perhaps one whose courage waxes and wanes. I trust you’ll take care of yourself and return home soon -- surely the weather at the front is_ not _what we want it to be this late into February -- as we all in the Garrison are rather looking forward to the celebratory feast in your honour._

_Constance has already got ideas for the menu, and she’d be terribly let down if you were delayed._

_Warmly,_

_Elodie_

**ii. pauldron**

Brujon claims it is the food being served -- Serge has learned some new tricks -- and Luc avows that it is the cleanliness of the stables. For all its rebuilt newness the Garrison maintains a grounded sense of regimentation, to be sure, but its _flavour_ \--

“You’re both completely off the mark,” says France’s new First Minister, visiting one evening for dinner. He does so with all the posturing of one who prides himself a superior intellection in such matters. From across the yard, an unmistakable voice sounds:

“ _Charles!_ _What_ have I told you about leaving your _bloody_ pauldron at the foot of the stairs!”

“ _Domesticity_ ,” says Aramis, with twinkling eyes, himself only newly acquainted with the word, as the distinctive soldier-marching tones of Madame d’Artagnan paint a vivid picture of exactly how the good Captain will suffer for his forgetfulness. 

**iii. knowing**

“The King,” he starts one evening, once the baby is asleep. A fire has been started and as such lights up the merry yield of last springtime’s garden, hanging dried and preserved from the kitchen mantlepiece. Sylvie’d never given much thought to how she’d like her kitchen to feel, but looking at it now, she’s decided it has always been _this_. 

But anyway. Athos, and his peculiar conversation opener. He’s hovering by her elbow with an air of gravity to him not unlike a dour, recently-wetted cat. 

“Yes?” she says, both innocent and indulgent.

“I have been deliberating,” says her husband. “There is something you _must_ know.”

The cooking knife goes down; Sylvie tosses him a look over her shoulders, all dancing eyes and curious mischief. 

“Athos. _Love_.”

He pales; she nearly laughs (“Oh God -- you _know_?”) and she believes it’s not so much the _knowing_ that is aging him as it is the fact that she, his wife of slight anti-monarchal leanings, finds it all an absolute riot of a secret.

**iv. vocabulary**

In March the shrubbery of the palace gardens begins to bloom green, an envoy from England suffers from food poisoning (not _real_ poisoning, Anne insists, aggrieved) and the word _magnificent_ is encountered, appraised, and summarily catapulted to Favourite New Vocabulary Word by the seven-year-old king.

The morning pasties are magnificent. The gardens’ most vocal peacock is magnificent. Madame d’Chevreaux’s new bonnet is magnificent. 

“Mama,” declares Louis, with quite a bit of regentral gravity, “I _do_ b’leive you’re a _magnificent_ sort of person.”

“He gets this from _you_ ,” Anne murmurs, barely audible at the dinner table one night. Aramis hides his delighted cough behind a handkerchief.

**v. husband**

Elodie looks for all the world as though she has run the length of the main street from the laundry to the Garrison to reach her. Her usually quite sensible hair is flyaway; her skirts are rumpled; her pale cheeks a ruddy, splotchy peach.

Constance is alarmed.

“Is it Marie Cessette?” she asks.

“Oh, no,” gasps Elodie.

“Has there been a fire?”

“Oh, no,” insists Elodie.

“Did someone get _shot_?!”

“Oh, _no_ ,” says Elodie, dear girl that she is, her eyes going wide.

“Well then what on Earth’s happened,” asks Constance, unsure whether she must be concerned or cursory. “You look like you ran the whole way here!”

“ _Constance_ ,” says Elodie, looking by all accounts the most aggrieved of women. “I’m in love with my husband!”

Constance freezes, halfway into sorting through musketballs. Somewhere across the Garrison’s courtyard, there is the sound of chickens clucking. Perhaps Serge will prepare one for supper.

“Oh,” Constance says, after a long pause. “That _is_ something, isn’t it.”

**vi. handsome**

Raoul is not yet a full year when he is introduced to the family at large; spring has by this time strong-armed its way quite thoroughly into Paris, with blossoms lining trees and puddles evaporating in the creeping May heat. They’ve left their garden behind, but it’ll surely thrive again this year, helped along by the happiness left thumbprinted behind. And anyway, the city air seems to suit the baby; he’s not shut his wide blue eyes once since arrival.

“You know,” says d’Artagnan, peering down, “that’s got to be the most handsome baby in the world, I think.”

“Second only to Marie-Cessette, of course,” says Porthos, recently returned, with a smile that has not disappeared since.

“He takes after Sylvie,” explains Aramis, who has not given up his hold on the baby in nearly an hour.

Athos, unaffected, glows with pride.

**vii. morning**

No one particular day solidifies the feeling that _all is well_. Perhaps that is not a day that will ever come. 

But one morning, the sun is filtering quietly and summer-yellow through the drawn curtains, dappling their bed. The air in the room is still cool with the lingering dawn. The palace is not yet awake, not fully. 

Anne, eyes sleep-soft but alert, presses a kiss to his hand in gentle greeting, and Aramis thinks, _oh._


End file.
